Love Me, Love My iPhone

Why watch soaps and satires and series of people acting out seriously subjugated lives, when all you have to do is hop on the metro, or the RER and you've got the whole tapestry of heaving human hilarity laid out before you for your delectation. And it's real, terribly wonderfully, woefully, terrifically real.

A woman on my train going into Paris a couple of days ago was doing her full make-up routine - the lips, the foundation, the blusher, the mascara, the works, all the while chatting away to her friend across the way as the rest of us buried our heads in free rags, held on desperately to metal poles and in my case stared in wonder at this ostentatious creature who had invited us, for one morning only, into her private grooming routine.

She started the journey as a plain Jane, but lo! From the ashen beginnings of early morning weariness a bird of paradise arises, bright and glowing, technicoloured, ready to meet the day head on, and we witnessed the transformation. It was a miracle, I say, and I was there; I saw it happen!

I caught her eye as I was sniggering to my travelling companion about her, and I think she was pissed off, but I'm not sure. But still. Is it right? Would she gouge the grime from under her nails too or clip them, carefully placing the detritus on her knee or in a tissue or carelessly casting it onto the floor like elderly odoriferous Africans occasionally do? Is that ok? Is it I who should feel ashamed for daring to pierce her private preening bubble with my gaze?

Does it matter? Am I over-reacting? Should I get a life? Should I keep my nose down and butt out? Or should I slip into the seat opposite her and start attacking my nasal hairs with tweezers? These are the questions which matter, I'm inclined to feel.

Thankfully my journey's are generally less stressful, although blood pressures can still rise regularly, particularly in these Indian summer heatwave daze of end Sept / early Oct with those good old record temperatures causing short skirts and sandals to come scurrying back from oblivion to test young (and not so young) men's titillation thresholds once again.

Sorry if I've rubbed anyone's sensibilities up the wrong way, but you know me - just saying what's on my mind and it's not my fault if my daily grind gives me more food for thought than a thousand episodes of your toxically canned laughter emitting sitcom. Still friends anyone?